


we both got a million bad habits to kick

by orphan_account



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Asexual Jughead Jones, Character Study, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Season/Series 01, Pre-Relationship, Self-Discovery, alternate title: how to halfway join a gang, surprisingly mature conversations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-07 21:59:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11632761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: They’re still friends, but everything has shifted. They go to different schools, now, so they don’t see each other nearly as much. Everyone’s caught up in their own shit. He visits his dad every other weekend, sometimes two weeks in a row. He has a cliche leather gang jacket in the back of his new closet that he thinks about putting on everyday, but never quite does.(jughead, trying to accept his new place in the world without leaving his old friends behind)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> listen..........this is self-indulgent as hell and i know all of this will prob be derailed when s2 comes out but whenever i see any post-s1 stuff w/ jug and the serpents, betty is always somehow involved and it's always shippy and ~dark~ and i just......always think abt how easily he made friends at southside high like literally his first day and he had every1 laughing and the 'easy hot dog he's family' like..........let me have this..

 

Adjusting to his New Life on the Southside is both easier and harder than Jughead thought it would be. He isn’t sure which one bothers him more. 

His new foster home is nice, he wasn’t lying about that—an older couple with the woman’s sister living with them, a couple of kids already gone off to college. One of them almost made it into Yale, he’s told. The _almost_ isn’t the important part, because associating someone in their small town, in this part of town, with _Yale_ is incredible in itself. Jughead hopes they don’t have those kinds of high standards set for him, because he’d make it to the moon before he made it into fucking Yale. 

He has a bed and a roof and food on the table everyday, which beats most of what he had before he half-moved into the Andrews house, so that’s nice, too. The woman’s sister, an older, snarky lady with a smart mouth, asks him what he’s writing about. When he tells her, says it’s about Riverdale and the things it hides, she gives him this little conspiratorial grin and says _this place has all kinds of secrets, kid, good luck finding all of ‘em._

He thinks that if all the secrets are like Clifford Blossom, he doesn’t want to find them at all. You can’t un-see a father shooting his kid in the head, and Jughead thinks that once is enough for him.

School is another thing altogether. It’s a high school, that’s for damn sure, and you have to walk through a metal detector every time you come in, but it’s worlds—galaxies—away from Riverdale High. 

The thing is, it’s _easy._ It’s easy to _be_ , to let himself blend into it all instead of stand out like neon sign, flashing, saying this one here, this one does not belong, this one is not like the others. 

Jughead doesn’t know how he should feel about that. A part of him is relieved it’s not another Riverdale High waiting to happen—a school full of people that had watched each other grow up into the messes they all are today, where everyone had some sort of part in shaping everyone else. A part of him wanted it to be difficult, wanted to not belong here, wanted to prove every single person who’d ever said he was Southside through and through _wrong_ , because so many people have said that to him—he has no future, he’s a Southside kid. 

A part of him is afraid that laughing his ass off at a table full of near-strangers is proving them all right, but the rest of him doesn’t really care anymore. It’s nice not to feel out of place, an extra in the wrong scene of a movie he was never cast in. One of the boys lounging on the table top has a leather Serpent’s jacket, but either no one cares or no one wants to care, and he’s okay with that. 

It almost feels like a betrayal somehow, stealing people’s fries at lunch, walking through the halls with an arm over his shoulder as the Serpent jacket boy shows him around. Like he’s found new friends and left his old ones behind—which isn’t true. They still meet at Pop’s all the time, Jughead still does his homework spread out on Archie’s floor sometimes, but it’s. Different. 

Mr Andrews got shot, too, which changed so much. It changed Archie even more than Grundy had; Jughead remembers bursting into the hospital, Archie’s hands and shirt soaked in his father’s blood, face stark white and fucking terrified. Jughead had walked him to the bathroom and turned the water on, helped him scrub the grime off his hands, out from under his nails, helped roll his sleeves up enough to hide all the red and handed off his jacket to hide all the rest. 

He’s fine now, thank god or whatever else is up there in the sky. But Archie had looked so goddamn afraid, felt so small despite the fact that he had more muscle mass in his arms than Jughead did on his whole body. He had shoved his face into the crook of Jughead’s shoulder, his back digging into the sink of an empty hospital bathroom, and shook himself apart, bones clattering together like a broken marionette because a father had shot his own son and Archie’s father is kind and good and in surgery and these things were never supposed to happen here, but they have. 

Jughead had felt so completely helpless and useless in a way he hadn’t felt since his dad had collapsed on the trailer floor, drunk out of his head and out of his heart, since he’d watched his dad walk down the hallway in handcuffs, since Archie whispered at him to _not tell anyone, please._

Everyone else showed up soon after, and they’d sat, the four of them—five, when Kevin and his dad showed up, in the waiting room, hands clasped together, a pile of nerves and bleeding fucking hearts, until a nurse came and told them that the only decent parent in this godforsaken town was, miraculously, alive. 

Archie has been On Edge since then, something heavy in the way he moves, jumpy in the way he sits. He doesn’t go to Pop’s as often—Jughead can’t blame him for that—so he usually hangs with him at his house, or at the park, or in their old treehouse that somehow hasn’t fallen apart yet, a lifetime of shared secrets and sleepovers in that air. Jughead had actually spent a few nights in a sleeping bag there before he moved into the school, but he doesn’t ever tell Archie that. 

Archie confesses to him, late one night, a hand curled loosely around Jughead’s wrist, that he’s afraid for all of them, all his friends, but especially for Jughead. _You’re living in a snake pit_ , he whispers, _all the bad shit that’s happened here happens there everyday, what if something happens to you, too?_

_I’m tougher than I look_ , Jughead whispers back, ignores the way his voice shakes, _I’ll be fine._

_You don’t know that,_ Archie says. 

Jughead just shrugs. 

They’re still friends, but everything has shifted. People are afraid; Riverdale is in psychological ruins. They go to different schools, now, so they don’t see each other nearly as much. Everyone’s caught up in their own shit. He visits his dad every other weekend, sometimes two weeks in a row. He has a cliche leather gang jacket in the back of his new closet that he thinks about putting on everyday, but never quite does.

There’s this guy who used to live in the Sunnyside trailer park a few years back, a few years older than Jughead. He’d asked for Jughead’s help on a Shakespeare essay once, called him over on Jughead’s way home from school, the question of ‘were Romeo and Juliet actually in love?’ The answer had been _no,_ but the problem was that Shakespeare’s language is not for everyone, so Jughead had lent him a simplified copy he’d stolen from the school library in seventh grade. 

They haven’t talked much since then, but he’s seen him around. He thinks he might be in a few courses at the local community college. Jughead is pretty sure he’s a Serpent, now, or at least hangs with that crowd. 

He finds him after school one day, waiting, propped against the school’s front gate with a cigarette in hanging loosely from his mouth. Vaguely, Jughead wonders if he actually enjoys smoking, or if it’s just a part of his whole Scary Biker Gang look. He wonders if he’ll have to start smoking if he joins.

“I heard about what happened with your dad,” Julian says when Jughead approaches him, face young and sympathetic, “That really sucks, man.”

“Yeah,” Jughead says, because there’s not much else he can say to that.

“I know a few of the others’ve already stopped by,” he drops the cigarette, put it out with the heel of his boot, “But I just wanted you to know that anything you need? We got you—FP was family to us, y’know?” 

Jughead nods; he’s been beginning to realize how not superficial that statement was, no matter how many times they said it. His dad had literally turned down a lesser prison sentence for these people, and he had no doubt they would’ve done the same for him.

“I’m coming to realize that, yeah,” he says, “Thanks.”

A sloppy grin, “Y’know, your dad used to talk about you so much I kinda feel like I know you more than I already do.” 

_Good god,_ Jughead thinks, and something must show on his face because Julian laughs. 

“All good things, I promise,” he says, “You’re a good kid, Jughead. You were his whole world—always used to tell us that if we tried to sell to you, he’d string our asses up,” he looks at him, something sincere and a little frightening to Jughead—he doesn’t know this person, not really, and this person is offering so much, “You don’t gotta get in too deep, I know your old man wouldn’t want that, but just know that we got your back. You need anything, you know where to find us. ‘Our door is always open’, and all that, ‘specially to FP’s kid.” 

“Thank you,” Jughead says again; he’s always been good with words and never been good with emotions like this, but he really does mean it. Julian seems to know that, eyes crinkling when he grins. “You been okay?” Jughead doesn’t know why he asks, “With the police cracking down on everything?”

His grins slips a little bit, and he shrugs, “We’ve been gettin’ by. A lot more of us getting arrested for shit we never have before, but it’s usually bullshit, so they can’t hold us very long. Think they’re just scared.”

“They are,” Jughead agrees, “Shit’s been scary.”

Julian sighs, something deep and tired and older than his twenty-something years, “Yeah,” he says, “It really has.”

 

“They’re good guys, all of ‘em,” FP says to him when he visits next weekend. He looks years older, sitting across from him, bags under his eyes deeper than Jughead remembers, but he does seem like he’s gained back some the weight he lost when all he did was drink and pass out and repeat the cycle, so that’s something, “But don’t get in too deep.”

“I know,” Jughead says, “I won’t.”

His dad shakes his head, “I know you, kid—you’ll stick your nose into whatever shady shit you can find.”

Jughead flushes a little, but just shrugs. It’s not untrue; it’s how he’d helped solve Jason’s murder, and why he got beaten to shit behind the grocery store last year for poking around the former Mayor’s possible affair. 

“I know when to stop,”

His dad snorts, “No you don’t,” and Jughead has to bite back a smile. If nothing else, at least they’re almost always honest with each other. 

“I won’t poke around, dad,” he promises, wonders if he sounds like a broken record, “I don’t wanna get into all that drug shit, anyways.”

“We don’t deal drugs that often,” his dad defends weakly.

“Clifford Blossom’s drug business stuff was just shut down,” he points out, “It’s the perfect opportunity for someone to take over and keep the business going, make a lot of profit; they’ll have virtually no competition.” 

“And you think the Serpents’ll be the ones to do that?” he doesn’t sound accusatory, just vaguely curious. 

Jughead shrugs, “You would know more than me, obviously, but if not them, then someone else. There’re other gangs near by,” and after, a second thought, “But it’d be pretty stupid to start up a bigger drug trade right _now,_ Sheriff’s been poking around the Southside more than usual, so maybe they’ll wait till it all dies down before they pick it up again. They’ll still have to be careful, though.” 

His dad just shakes his head again, the way he used to when Jughead was explaining his latest complicated story or school project, “Don’t ever let anyone know how smart you are,” he says, half-smile on his lips, “They’ll want you all to themselves.”

Jughead rolls his eyes, laughs a little, but makes a note of it all the same.

 

The first time he and Archie had watched Stephen King’s 1984 _Children Of The Corn,_ 8 p.m. on Classic Horror Night at the Drive-In in the third grade, Archie had flat-out refused to eat corn for over a week. Jughead had reminded him over and over again that corn barely became relevant at the very end and that wasn’t even the scariest part, he’d literally just seen the movie, but Archie said it was called Children Of The _Corn,_ so any mention of it reminded him of blood and fire and knives and all that. 

Jughead remembers thinking that the movie wasn’t actually all that scary; the camera work with all it’s dramatic zooms and loud music were more funny than anything, and the acting was…well it was very 80’s, but he’d enjoyed it all the same. It was a Classic, and Jughead loved those, because his mom loved those. She used to joke about how the killer in Scream looked eerily like her husband— _good thing he’s cute_ , she would say with a laugh. 

They watch it again, 10 p.m. on a Saturday in Archie’s living room because the Drive-In is long gone and it was on TV and they’d had nothing else to watch this late at night.

If things had gone differently this summer, they might’ve joked about how the scary red-headed kid was probably related to the Blossoms. They didn’t, because they might be assholes sometimes in their own special ways, but they do have some semblance of tact. 

“Y’know,” Jughead says halfway through, in the middle of that whole ‘praise the lord, kill the outlanders’ scene, “Lots of shit has gone wrong in our own little small town, but at least it hasn’t turned out like that.”

“I dunno,” Archie says, in that voice that meant he’d been spending too much time around Jughead and was probably gonna say something vaguely rude, “Adults aren’t doing so well here, either.”

“At least we’re not experiencing Scream in real time. All the teens die in that one.”

Archie snaps his fingers like he’s remembering something, “Your dad looks just like that killer dude, right?”

Jughead smiles, a little crooked, “Well, he doesn’t stab people to death, so lucky for us they’re only the same in the looks department.”

“Lucky for us,” Archie repeats. 

A pause. He’s been doing that a lot around Archie these days: pausing, thinking about what to say before he says it. His smart mouth has gotten him in worlds of trouble over the years, saying shit as soon as it comes to mind, whether he was with friends or in class. Around Archie, though, especially now, after everything, he knows he needs to be mindful of what he says—not that he’ll lie to him, go easy on him, because he’s never gone easy on him when it’s something he needs to hear. 

“Remember when you wouldn’t eat corn for like a week in third grade?” he asks, because not everything he says to Archie is profound or helpful, and it’s all he’s been thinking about since the movie started.

Archie lets out a surprised kind of half-laugh, “God, yes. You were so mean about it.”

“I wasn’t _mean,”_ Jughead says, glancing over at him, “I was trying to be helpful.”

“You told me I was being stupid because the movie was about kids killing people and that they didn’t do it with corn.”

“Well, you _were_ being stupid,” he points out, popping a sour patch kid in his mouth, “And they _didn’t_ kill with corn.”

Archie laughs, “I _know_ that; it was third grade word-association.”

Jughead rolls his eyes, but still smiles, something that feel sweet on his lips, feels freeing. He hasn’t felt this at home, sprawling on the worn out couch he used to fall asleep on when he’d stay over, in a long time. 

“Hey, Jug,” Archie says, voice hushed. He leans forwards just a little bit, like he has a secret to tell that no one else can know. Unconsciously, Jughead imitates him. 

“Yeah?” 

“We’re still friends, right?” 

The question catches him a little bit off guard, hand stilling where he’s searching the box for anything else other than the sour powder salt stuff that always piles at the bottom. On the screen, Linda Hamilton screams.

“Yeah, of course we are,” he says, “Why d’you ask?”

Archie shrugs with only his left shoulder, the way he does when he’s either embarrassed or too lazy to be bothered to shrug for real, “I don’t know. It’s just—a lot’s happened lately, and you live on the other side of town now, go to a different school and all that, and I feel like I hardly ever see you anymore, y’know?”

“Yeah,” Jughead says quietly. He knows. 

“I just,” Archie swallows, “I don’t want us to like, fall apart again, like we did over summer. It was like—I never noticed how much I needed you around until you weren’t there anymore? And I know it was my fault, I pushed you away,”

“I don’t blame you for that,” Jughead cuts in softly, “You were dealing with a lotta complicated shit, Arch.”

“So were you, though,” he says, earnest, “And I was so caught up in myself that I didn’t notice. I just,” a quick breath, “A lot is happening right now, too, with my dad and Ronnie’s dad and everything else, but I don’t wanna make the same mistake. I know you’re going through shit right now, too—more than any of us, probably—so if there’s anything bothering you, anything you need to talk about, I just want you to know I’m here. To listen, if that’s all you need. To help if I can.”

Archie is so Good. Jughead’s always known this, since they were in elementary school, making up new worlds in their treehouse and scraping their knees in the sand. He’s golden, and Jughead thinks it’s a real goddamn shame that he doesn’t know it. 

“Thank you, Arch,” he says, almost stumbling over the way Archie is looking at him, like he would give him the world if he asked for it, like Jughead would ever ask for it, “That—it means a lot.” 

Archie shifts a little closer, couch caving a little under the new weight, and smiles. 

“I just want you to know,” Jughead says a moment later, because ruining a somber mood has always been a favorite defense mechanism of his, “Your fear of corn is valid, and it’s okay if you don’t wanna eat it.”

Archie hits him with a pillow.

(Later that night, he thinks about telling him. Telling him about how being with Betty never made him _feel_ anything, the way he everyone says it should, how he felt worse about making her feel bad than actually ending the relationship. Telling him about how his eyes are warm like melting chocolate and everything Jughead could ever need, how they make him want to laugh and cry all at the same time so he just does neither. 

He thinks about telling him about the jacket he wants and doesn’t want to put on, about Julian and his promise, the dog Ricky brings around all the time because one of his foster parents is allergic to dogs so he can’t keep him in the house. He thinks Archie would love Hot Dog; he’s always been a dog person, used to make his dad stop the car so he could get out and pet one he saw on the side of the road.

He thinks about telling him a lot of things. Jughead’s never been one to shy away from telling Archie what he needs to hear, but he thinks that he doesn’t need to hear any of this right now, not with the way things are. Their relationship, whatever fragile, wonderful thing they have, is something Jughead cherishes, wants to protect with everything he can. 

He thinks about telling him a lot of things, but instead he just clicks the TV off with the remote, the movie long over, some kind of infomercial playing. Archie is asleep beside him, neck bent awkwardly enough that Jughead winces, pushes his head back so he’s lying against the couch cushion. 

He jumps as the front door creaks open, feels stupid when he hears the awkward clacks of Mr Andrews’ crutches against the hardwood. He still hasn’t quite gotten the hang of them. 

He debates pretending to be asleep, but decides against it when Fred pushes the door closed and clacks his way into the living room. 

“Hey, Mr. A,” Jughead says quietly when he glances in. 

“Hey, Jug,” he says, a tired smile on his face. 

“How was physical therapy?”

If exhaustion could kill a man—and he’s pretty sure it could—Jughead is sure Fred Andrews would’ve been dead long before he got shot, “It’s still a work in progress,” he says, “but I’m getting there. Archie asleep?”

“Yeah,” Jughead nods, “He always falls asleep in the middle of the good parts.”

That makes Fred’s smile a little bit lighter, “He does,” he agrees, and then “You been alright, Jug?”

He wishes people would stop asking him that—he wishes the Andrews would stop asking him that. Fred asks him every time he sees him, like he isn’t the one who almost bled out in the middle of a diner.

“I’ve been fine, Mr A,” he says, like he always does. 

Fred nods absently, like he doesn’t quite believe him but doesn’t want to press. Like he knows that no one’s been doing very fine lately, but he wants to believe that someone has. Jughead will give him that, after everything Fred’s given him. 

“Good,” he says, “That’s good. You gonna stay down here, or do you wanna take Archie’s bed?”

“I’ll just stay down here, I’m all comfy already, and I don’t wanna wake him up.”

Fred gives him that sad, tired smile again, “You’re a good kid, Jug. Get some rest, okay?”

“Okay.”

He listens to Fred work his way slowly up the stairs, and wonders why they don’t just pull a mattress down here so he doesn’t hurt himself again.)

 

The first time Jughead wears the jacket to school, he thinks his hands may be shaking. 

It’s not really—not really because he’s afraid of it, of anything. It’s because he’s not. It doesn’t feel wrong, the heavy leather against the back of his neck; the thing actually fits him perfectly, and he wonders vaguely if they like, made (?) a new jacket in his size before they gave it to him. If that’s the case, they really are committed to welcoming new members. 

No one really looks twice at him, either, other than a few teachers who give him a brief once-over, that look on their face that means they’re either lamenting the doomed youth or are debating how much trouble he’ll be in the future, and maybe a few jock-type boys who’ve probably decided they are not going to fuck with him anymore. The latter makes Jughead feel smug and secure in a way he never was at his old school. 

Ricky, the Serpent kid who’d stolen his fries on his first day and showed him around the school on his second, grins wide when he sees him, looks him up and down and claps him on the back. He doesn’t say anything else about it. Jughead is surprisingly grateful. 

He wonders if no one seems surprised about it because this is what he’s meant to be. His identity isn’t a secret, here—Jason may have been a kid from the other side of town, but a rich kid getting murdered on the Northside is shit you don’t hear everyday, and everyone knows about the Serpents—but he’s not the only kid here with a parent in jail. It’s nothing new or original. No reason to give anyone shit about it when there’s probably plenty of your own baggage to get shit about. 

He goes through the day with a snake on his back and a new feeling in his chest. 

He slides his lunch tray onto his usual table where Ricky’s made a spot for him, and feels like a puzzle piece finally pushed into place—a snake slipping into its skin, he thinks vaguely, a smile on his lips. The apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree, he supposes. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know i had to sneak in a 1996 scream skeet ulrich joke ok
> 
> comment 2 save a life (my life)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He crosses paths with Archie a week later, walking home from Pop’s on a lazy Friday evening. It’s a vaguely chilly day, but the jacket keeps him surprisingly warm. Apparently it’s good for more than just aesthetic.
> 
> “Jug?” he hears, and looks up to see Archie, letterman jacket and all.
> 
> His stomach sinks with dread. He’s not ready for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe not as polished off as i would've liked, but im gonna be busy for the next little while so i wanted to get it out while i had the time  
> anyways i love these boys sm give them peace

 

The first time he sees Betty since the whole ‘Fred in the hospital with a gunshot wound’ incident, other than the few times they’ve crossed paths at the Andrews’ house, is, surprisingly, in the breakfast food aisle of the grocery store in the middle of town. 

There are exactly two grocery stores in Riverdale. One of them is up near Riverdale High; it has a special organic foods section for the upper class parents who liked to preach about clean eating. One of them is here, in the middle of the place but leaning a little more to the Southside. Jughead has always shopped here, and Betty has always not, so it’s fair to say he’s a little surprised. 

He’s here because his foster mother sent him out with a little list and some folded bills after school and Jughead was in the mood for some Lucky Charms, anyways. He’s crouched down, keeping his knees carefully off of the dirty tile, trying to remember what discount brand of coffee his foster father likes, when he hears a small, surprised, “Jug?”

He looks up, and there’s Betty, in the light blue sweater that looks like a part of the sky was cut out and stitched together. She looks very Out Of Place, a bag of that one obscure type of tea that her mom likes clutched in one hand.

“Betty?” he says, and blinks. He feels her eyes follow him as he turns and stands, tracing the outline of the jacket he’s wearing. “Uh…hi.”

Her eyes snap up to his face, “Hi,” she says. 

The silence drags, and it dawns on him just how much they’ve been…not _avoiding_ each other, but also very much avoiding each other, since the relationship ended. The funny thing is, he doesn’t think either of them were very upset about it. It just didn’t work. He thinks they were both trying to get something out of the relationship that the other person couldn’t give. 

Betty loves projects and Archie and probably Veronica, and Jughead doesn’t wanna be a Project and he’s not Archie and he’s definitely not Veronica. He thinks he kissed Betty because he wanted to feel something for her that he knew he didn’t feel, still doesn’t feel, doesn’t really know if he’ll ever feel. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to feel about that. 

“So,” he says, just so someone will say something, “Couldn’t find that tea at the fancy store?”

“They were out of stock,” she answers, and then: “So, you’re a Serpent now?”

Jughead shrugs, feeling vaguely out of his depth, “No. I don’t know,” he answers honestly, “They’re not bad people.”

She raises an eyebrow, “They’re gang members, Jug.”

“So was Joaquin, and you liked him—Kevin _dated_ him.”

“That was different,”

“How?” Jughead demands. 

Betty opens her mouth, and falters, “I just—I’m worried about you. I haven’t seen you in weeks, and now this?”

Jughead, suddenly feeling guilty even though he knows half of the avoiding was Betty’s fault, fiddles with the hem of his jacket, “I know, I’m sorry. They’re not all bad people. They gave me joint custody of a dog.”

“You’re basing their character on the fact that they gave you a dog?” she sounds exasperated, but he can hear the edge of a smile on its way. 

“A _dog,_ Betty. His name is _Hot Dog,_ that’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”

She does smile this time, albeit small, “It is,” she admits, “Just. Be careful, Jug, you know what happened with your dad. Don’t get in too deep.”

He smiles wryly, “Everyone’s been saying that, lately. I do have some common sense, y’know; it’s not like I’m suddenly selling drugs.”

“I know, Juggie, but this is some dangerous stuff.”

His smile turns a little sour, “Everything’s been dangerous stuff, these days. If anything, this gives me more protection against all of it—people don’t fuck with the Serpents.”

Betty hums in agreement. They stand there for another moment. 

“Don’t tell Archie, yet, okay?” he asks quietly, “I wanna be the one to tell him.”

Betty looks like she wants to argue—probably something about how they’ve all kept so many secrets from each other and look how that turned out—but something must show on his face, something scared, because she nods. 

“Help me find the cilantro and you have a deal.”

 

Some days he wears the jacket and some days he doesn’t, and that doesn’t really seem to matter. Wearing it once was enough to get the point across, probably. 

The thing is that sometimes it makes him feel guilty—his dad had torn their family apart, and even though he knows the Serpents weren’t the real problem (it was the drinking and the losing jobs and the loud arguments and almost taking a drunken swing at Mom and throwing a bottle at Jughead and all the rest of the mess of a family tearing at the seams and two people doing nothing to stop it), he can’t help but fear the association. 

We’re not our parents, he’d told Betty, and we’re not our families. He never wanted to be his father, but sometimes he’s afraid that’s what he’s becoming. The other half of him reminds him that he still has plenty of time to change and grow, he’s not going to wind up dead drunk and in jail for obstruction of justice by the time he turns seventeen. 

He’s not his father. He doesn’t wanna be his father. He’s just doing the best with what he has, and that’s not a bad thing. 

Some days he wears the jacket and some days he doesn’t. Ricky is wearing his today, wears it like a safety blanket, whether it’s to school or the grocery store, and Jughead tries not to wonder what the story behind that is—something about vulnerability, or maybe he just likes the way it looks on him—as Ricky throws an arm over his shoulder; he can feel the leather on the back of his neck. 

“You got any plans later?” he asks. 

Jughead raises an eyebrow, pulling a book from his locker, “Homework?”

“Other than that,”

Jughead pauses for a second, even though both of them probably know he hardly ever does shit during the week, “Not really.”

He breaks out into a grin, “Nice, I’ll take you out—to dinner,” he adds with a laugh, “Thought I’d introduce you to the rest of the crew.”

Suddenly, Jughead is apprehensive, “I don’t know,”

“Not everyone,” he specifies, “I’m not a big fan of crowds, either. Just the inner circle, you know? People actually our age—or like, around our age.” 

The hopeful tone in his voice makes Jughead smile just a bit. He wonders how anyone could look at kids like these and say that they’re no better than where they come from. He pauses, for just a moment, and then

“We can go to Pop’s or something. I’ll pay.”

“I’m in.”

 

(He gets a text from Archie on his walk home, asking if he wants to come over later because his dad is ordering pizza and he needs help studying for a chemistry test on Friday. 

He’s conflicted, but eventually texts back that sorry, he’s busy tonight, and he’s always been shit at chemistry anyways so he’s sure that Betty will be more helpful.

Jughead ignores the lump in the back of his throat when Archie sends him a crying emoji and a _jk it’s cool, some other time,_ and pockets his phone.)

 

Dinner goes better than he could’ve expected.

They manage to squeeze five people into a booth in the back corner of Pop’s, Jughead propped against the wall in a way that makes him feel snug but not claustrophobic. The rest of The Crew look Southside, no designer clothes or bags or high heeled shoes (other than a knock-off sweater with Gucci printed across the chest; Reggie would wear that, he thinks vaguely), lounging instead of sitting with a straight back and crossed legs like Betty in her sweater vests. 

Jughead has always felt Out Of Place, something awkward and misshapen and stitched together by shaky, inexperienced hands. Here, he feels the way he felt on his first day at Southside High, slipping into something easy and natural. He feels like A Part. 

A few of them have the leather jackets hanging off their shoulders and a few don’t, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Jughead left his tucked in his closet today, but that doesn’t seem to matter either. There’s something built up over years shared with Archie and Betty and the rest of them that he feels like he almost maybe has here in a matter of weeks. A part of him wonders why he wanted so badly to stay in a place that didn’t want him when he could’ve had this. 

(That part of him thinks of Archie, strumming his guitar with the curtains pulled back and Jughead sprawled out on his bed, book cracked open, Veronica and her quips and Betty editing the hell out of his Blue & Gold articles.)

He thinks these people would’ve understood What he felt when the Sheriff was laying out his life in the form of school records, trying to move the papers around enough to pin up a picture that Jughead fit into perfectly. They would’ve understood the way his father understood, the way Betty could never. 

It feels nice. To belong. 

He’s suspicious by nature and distant by necessity, but he knows that Southside doesn’t automatically mean Bad, no matter how low income the neighborhoods or beat up the cars. His sister came from the Southside, and Jellybean is the best kid he knows, his favorite person in the world. That has to count for something. If not, then what’s the point? 

They get a bit loud, probably, but it’s late enough that the diner is mostly empty either way. Pop raises an eyebrow at him in that amused, cryptic way old store owners do, and gives them another round of onion rings for free. Jughead smiles back, vaguely embarrassed and not sure why. 

“So, Jughead,” a boy Jughead recognizes vaguely from his calculus class, and maybe from the night the Serpents showed up at the trailer and offered him a place in their life, “Ricky says you’re writing a book?”

Jughead raises an eyebrow, vaguely surprised; there’s more than one conversation going by now, “Uh, yeah, I’m writing this one about the whole Jason Blossom murder case thing and it’s affects on the town as a whole.”

“Shit,” the kid breathes out, “that was some crazy stuff. Were you working on it like, while it was happening?”

“Yeah, actually,” Jughead nods, twirling an union ring around his finger, “so it’s like, how it felt to go through the steps of solving the case, objectively _and_ personally, if that makes sense?”

The boy nods, looking thoughtful, “Sounds like some heavy shit.” and then, “You think I could read it sometime?”

That, surprisingly, surprises him; no one really, save his dad or Mr A or Archie a few times had ever really asked to read his shit—not that he was super open about it either way, “I mean, I still gotta edit and write the epilogue and stuff, but,” he pauses, shrugs, “yeah, sure.”

“Sweet,” the kid grins, and tosses a fry at him. 

Jughead catches it and, cautiously, smiles. 

 

He crosses paths with Archie a week later, walking home from Pop’s on a lazy Friday evening. He has Ricky’s drink in his hands because the guy always needs two hands to type, and he’s talking to his grandma about his lit grades or something. It’s a vaguely chilly day, but the jacket keeps him surprisingly warm. Apparently it’s good for more than just aesthetic. 

“Jug?” he hears, like some horrible repeat of the Betty store incident, and looks up to see Archie, letterman jacket and all. 

His stomach sinks with dread. He’s not ready for this. 

“Hey, Arch,” he gets out. Ignores the way the leather suddenly feels too hot where Archie’s eyes graze over it.

Archie glances behind him, where Jughead can feel Ricky hovering. 

“Hey, uh, you can go on,” he says, glancing back at him; his phone is gone, probably back in his pocket, and he looks wary, “I’ll catch up later.”

“You sure?” he asks, glancing between him and Archie. He wonders if he’s really that easy to read, or if he just looks very afraid right now.

“Yeah,” he answers, “You got an essay to write, anyways.”

He cracks a vague smile at that, and nods, plucking his soda out of Jughead’s hand. 

“Holler if you need anything,” he says.

There’s silence as he walks away, the sound of his shoes crunching against the pavement. Jughead’s not ready for this. 

“What’re you doing here?” he asks.

Archie meets his eye, something Jughead can’t identify on his face, “I was gonna go pick up some dinner, ask if you wanted to come over. The original Scream is on TV later.”

Oh, Jughead thinks. 

“Oh,” he says, “Haven’t seen that one in a while.” 

Silence. A car passes. It’s not supposed to be this quiet between the two of them, not this heavy kind of quiet, not since the summer from hell. 

“Are you a Serpent, now?” Archie asks. He’s never been one for skirting around the problem. 

Jughead shrugs, “I—I guess. I’m friends with some of them. They gave me a dog.”

“A dog?”

Jughead almost laughs, because of course that’s what Archie would focus on.

“His name’s Hot Dog. I think you’d like him.”

Archie seems like he wants to smile, but doesn’t. He looks Jughead up and down again. 

“What’re you doing, man?” he asks. 

“What?”

Archie opens his mouth, shuts it, opens it again, “This,” gestures vaguely, “this isn’t you.”

Jughead frowns, “What does _that_ mean?”

Archie gestures again, the way he does when he doesn’t know how to articulate what he’s trying to say, “You’re…different. Even when we hang out, now—you’re different.”

“Everyone’s different, Archie,” he says, “You’re different, too. A lot has happened.”

“But you’re not supposed to be different, you’re _Jughead_.”

Jughead crosses his arms over his chest, over his heart, “People change,” he says, feeling vaguely defensive, “You’ve changed. Betty’s changed. This whole damn town’s changed.”

“Sure,” Archie agrees, “I know. But you don’t—you don’t have to change like _this_. Just because you live on the Southside now doesn’t mean you have to—“

“Have to what?” Jughead snaps, “Act Southside? I’m not acting, Arch. I’m not like you, I don’t have a nice Northside house to go back to after this. And I finally,” he huffs, “I finally feel like, comfortable in my own skin here, man. Like I’m not the odd man out, or—or a charity case.”

Archie somehow looks offended at that, “You were never a charity case.”

Jughead wants to laugh again, but he doesn’t, because he’s afraid he might sob instead, “I was, Archie. Not to _you_ , thank god, but to the school? ‘Even a Southside kid can prosper here’. To Betty—I don’t even wanna get into that. To your dad—“

“My dad didn’t let you stay with us because he felt sorry for you,” Archie cuts in, “He let you stay with us because he cares about you.” 

Jughead swallows, “Look,” he breathes, “I love your dad, and I appreciate everything you’ve both done for me, but there’s—there’s a certain point where you overstep your bounds, y’know? And I—I think I did that a long time ago; I don’t even wanna _think_ about what kinda financial burden I was.”

“Financial burden?” Archie, bless his heart, has never been focused on money—the boy wants to pursue a career in music, difficult as the business is. 

“Ask your dad about it,” he says shortly, “A kid costs a lot.”

“All you did was eat all our food.”

“New clothes?” Jughead elaborates, “New school supplies when I got rid of everything out of police paranoia? He helped me update my _phone,_ dude. Shit costs money—money I couldn’t pay back and still can’t pay back.” 

“My dad never expected you to pay him back.”

“I know,” Jughead says helplessly, feels like everything inside him is pouring out, “because he’s a nice person, and I’m your friend, but he just spent like a month in the fucking _hospital_ —and who knows how the company was doing without him. He spent money on me that could’ve been used in better ways—could’ve helped you guys when you actually needed it.” 

Archie shakes his head, “You were literally _homeless_ ; was I supposed to just _let_ you be homeless?” 

“I would’ve been fine, Arch. I was doing fine for months before that.”

“You were living in a fifty-year-old drive-in, and then a school _closet._ ”

“It was temporary,” Jughead says.

“Really?” Archie shoots back, “Where were you gonna go after that?”

“I don’t know,” Jughead says; he’s so tired, “I was figuring it out. What was I supposed to do? You weren’t talking to me, we weren’t friends, and I was _not_ gonna ask to stay at Betty’s.”

Archie looks a bit guilty, even though that’s not what Jughead meant for him to feel; they’d talked about all that already, worked through it, “I don’t know, you could’ve stayed with your mom or something.”

“She _left without me_ ,” Jughead says, voice breaking where he wanted it to be hold strong, “Why the hell would she let me stay if I showed up out of nowhere?” he bites his lip, pulls himself together, “Archie, you could go to Chicago and be with your mom right now, and she’d be happy to have you, but—but not everyone’s mom is like your mom and not everyone’s dad is like your dad,” it comes out sounding more bitter than he intended, “You’re—lucky to have the family that you do, but not everyone does. I did the best I could with my circumstances, just like I’m doing right now.”

Archie is quiet for a moment, “Joining the Serpents is the best thing for you to do?” he doesn’t sound angry, necessarily. 

_“Yes,”_ he says simply, “It comes with protection—you said it yourself, things are dangerous now, especially over here.”

“Being in a gang is dangerous,” he counters, sounding remarkably like Betty.

“Being by myself, with no one watching my back, is more so.” he takes a breath, “I’m not breaking the law, or anything. I’m wearing a jacket. You have your family, I have mine.”

“I thought we were your family,” Archie says, voice small.

“Other than you, I haven’t seen you guys in weeks,” Jughead says helplessly, “We’re all dealing with our own shit.”

“So what, that’s it?” Archie asks in disbelief, “Not every family is like yours, either, Jug, they don’t fall apart so easy.”

Jughead feels himself tense, voice dropping. “You didn’t have to say that.”

“I know, fuck, I know, I’m sorry,” Archie says quickly, “I just. I don’t want this to happen again.”

Not talking. Growing apart instead of growing together. 

“I don’t want it to either,” Jughead admits quietly, “But I can’t just…stop. You know that, right? I need this, Archie. I can’t be alone over here, especially not now.” 

There’s a long pause, Archie looking somewhere over Jughead’s shoulder, like he’s thinking, like he’s trying to understand, and it makes something in Jughead ache, “I know,” he says eventually, “I’m just—upset I can’t be the one to do that for you, I guess. I don’t know.”

Jughead smiles vaguely, “You always did have a heroic streak.” 

Archie rolls his eyes, smiles a little, but there’s no malice behind it. Slowly, the smile dies from his face, looking thoughtful again. 

“I don’t… _like_ the idea,” he says slowly, “You know they got tied up in Jason’s murder; they do some shady stuff. But. I guess I get why you need it.” he looks up, finally making eye contact again, “Do you trust them?”

Jughead shrugs, trying to hide his surprise, “The ones that I know, for the most part. They’re loyal as shit. And, you know,” he adds a moment later, “I’m their leader’s kid. My dad could’ve named names, too, but he didn’t.”

Archie nods slowly, “They owe him, right? But since they can’t help him, they’re helping you?”

Jughead nods, exhaling deeply. He doesn’t know why he feels relief, but he does. 

“FP was family to them—and when they say that, they mean it. They’re loyal people. They said they’d have my back, and so far, they have.” 

Archie is silent for another moment, “That guy you were with—he’s a Serpent, too, right?”

“Ricky? Yeah, met him on my first day. He’s a nice guy, even if he doesn’t look like it at first.”

“Kinda like you,” Archie teases lightly, cautiously. Jughead feels something warm in his chest; things aren’t beyond repair. 

“Shut up,” 

More silence, not as heavy as the last few. Jughead doesn’t feel like he’s being suffocated anymore, so that’s a plus. 

“You wanna come over?” Archie asks. 

Jughead blinks, “For real?” 

“Yeah,” Archie says, “I’m not really sure how I feel about all this, but I…I don’t wanna stop seeing you. Being your friend, talking with you. I missed you, before, when we stopped being friends. I missed you a lot.”

“I know,” Jughead says, quietly fond, “I missed you, too. And you—you don’t have to love it. You can take your time—you don’t even have to accept it, if you don’t want to—but I don’t wanna lose you again. Not right now.” 

Jughead feels like he’s laid out his stupid, bleeding heart for everyone to see. Archie smiles. 

“I know you’ve already eaten, but my dad really wants a burger. Are you up for another one? I’ll pay.”

“Is that even a question?” Jughead scoffs. 

Archie laughs. Throws an arm over his shoulder and pulls him closer, shoulder against shoulder.

They still have a lot to talk about, probably. He’ll have to call his foster mom and let her know where he’ll be tonight. He thinks he’ll probably take off the jacket before they get to Archie’s; he doesn’t wanna give Fred a heart attack this early in his recovery.

But right now, things are—maybe not _good,_ but getting there. He thinks they’ll be okay. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> school starts monday every comment brings me good luck lmaoo


End file.
